


The Intimacy of Anger

by IcyKali



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Fix-It of Sorts, Flirting, Hurt/Comfort, Illustrated, M/M, Post-Episode: s04e10 Our Man Bashir, Resolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:15:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23602174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IcyKali/pseuds/IcyKali
Summary: Doctor Bashir is finally forced to address his colleagues' repeated failures to support both Garak and himself.
Relationships: Julian Bashir/Elim Garak
Comments: 15
Kudos: 164





	The Intimacy of Anger

**Author's Note:**

> This one might require a little explanation! I really enjoy Bashir's character... in about half the episodes he appears in. Bashir shines when he behaves like a compassionate adult gay and the writers let him develop past his obnoxiousness from season 1 and early season 2 without looking back and going back on his best characteristics (I think other characters, like Kira and Quark, suffer from this kind of inconsistency, too, seriously, poor Quark). I pick-and-choose for this fic, so it could be considered an AU or fix-it set before Garak and Bashir totally went off-the-rails in terms of their previous character arcs.
> 
> With this in mind, I could not help but notice how Bashir's friends often act very coldly toward him and repeatedly insult him even after he goes through so much development, whereas Garak (other than the time he went through withdrawal, and the one serious clash he and Bashir had in the Holosuite, which I would argue strengthened their relationship) is normally very sweet and supportive and genuinely interested in Bashir's daily life. I decided to write this fic to address both that and the mysterious way all of Bashir's friends seem to ignore how close he is to Garak even as that relationship becomes increasingly intimate. You will see me reference many instances where these things happen in episodes.

It had been a particularly bad week for Doctor Bashir. A freighter had unknowingly carried toxic spores into Deep Space 9, releasing them into the air circulation vents. The fungus that grew from said spores mimicked the hormones present in humanoid species’ endocrine systems, causing severe imbalances in scores of civilians. When Bashir and Garak had last tried to share a lunch, Bashir had been called away to tend to a patient who had exploded with rage and damaged their fists from punching the walls of their quarters. Days of further chaos ensued, and Bashir still had not seen Garak a single time since then—knowing Garak, he had probably sequestered himself in his shop, shutting out all of the nonsense. 

Fortunately, it was finally over. For the first time in what felt like ages, Bashir sank down into his favorite seat at Quark’s next to his good friends Chief O’Brien, Lieutenant Dax, and Major Kira Nerys. Bashir felt a twinge of longing for his favorite drink, heavily-sweetened Tarkalean Tea, but he ignored the urge. If all his friends chose to relax by pursuing a buzz, it was only right for him to follow suit. 

“You know, at least one good thing happened this week,” said O’Brien, fixing Bashir with a stare he was not astute enough to read. In Bashir’s experience, even when Miles was being affectionate, both his tone and face tended to be rather impassive, so he hoped it was a cheerful look.

“You’re right,” said Dax. “Major Kira going blind with rage is a sight I’ll never forget, no matter how many more centuries go by!” 

Kira grinned. Bashir made a face at Jadzia for the reminder. That incident had been bone-chillingly terrifying, even with augmented agility on his side. He had almost entirely repressed the memory, too. 

“Not what I meant, Jadzia,” said O’Brien. “I meant, it’s about time you stopped hanging out with Garak, Julian.” 

Bashir just blinked. Surely he had misunderstood Miles? Bashir got his wires crossed all the time, after all. 

“So what was the story behind that shocked look on your face when you finally ditched him?” asked Kira, looking like she had bitten into something sour. “Do I need to ask Odo to have a word with Garak? Or maybe I should do it myself?”

Bashir opened his mouth to respond, but Dax cut him off. “Did he finally go too far?” 

O’Brien’s face screwed up. “What do you mean, ‘finally?’ Arguing is how those Cardassians put the moves on their victims. Garak’s practically been begging to have Julian’s babies for—for years, now—if that’s not going too far, what is?!” 

“She means in a way that Julian would understand,” said Kira. 

“Excuse me?” Bashir put his drink down on the counter with a sharp _clink_. “If this is all some sort of prank, it’s not a very funny one. Why, I’m not even sure what’s worse—acting like I’ve suddenly turned my back on Garak, or implying that even after all the literature I’ve suffered through on his behalf, I somehow know less about Cardassian culture than Quark?! No offense, Quark.” 

As he moved to the other side of the bar, Quark shot him a look that said, “you’re on your own.” 

A static-y tingle made its way up Bashir’s spine and settled in his shoulders as he was left alone with his friends. He knew that neither the burn of the alcohol nor the incessant flickering lights in his peripheral vision were to blame for the sensation, but they certainly did not help matters. 

“You’re saying you knew he was putting the moves on you for ages, and you never put a stop to it before now?” O’Brien asked.

“I don’t see what’s made you so surprised. We’re flirtatious people.” Bashir kept his expression in-line. 

“He must have done something to make you run away and not look back!” Kira dismounted her bar stool. 

“I was called away from our lunch due to a medical emergency, Major. And the only reason I haven’t seen him since is the outbreak—I haven’t had any chance to breathe until tonight.” Bashir looked to the shelves of bottles behind the counter. The bright lights sparkling in their glass bodies hurt his eyes, but he did not want to endure the disapproving expressions of his colleagues. He took another sip of his drink and a blush rose to his cheeks.

He was hoping everyone had dropped this matter when he felt Dax put a hand on his shoulder. “Julian, I know most of all how flattering it can be when someone’s interested in you that way—”  
  
“But does it have to be Garak that’s flattering you?” O’Brien asked. 

Bashir gently pushed Dax’s hand away. “He’s as much a friend of mine as you three.” He considered asking what their problem was with Garak, but decided he did not want them to offer any explanations. 

“Is he?” Kira joined Dax in looking over Bashir’s shoulders. “I mean, you’ve said yourself that he never tells you what he’s thinking when he can help it. Someone who’s always lying to your face doesn’t sound like any friend I’ve known.”

“It isn’t like that, Major.” Bashir kept looking straight ahead. “It’s not that he’s constantly lying to me. It’s more that he gives me parts of the truth, always enough for me to work things out myself. It’s more of a game, really. It keeps me sharp, makes me feel… good about myself.” He could see his face, and his friend’s bodies, reflected in his nearly-empty glass. The images were bent out of shape, warped. 

“That certainly wouldn’t make me feel good,” O’Brien said.

Bashir watched Dax’s reflection turn to face O’Brien. “It’s true, you don’t seem quite as keen on intellectual stimulation as Julian.” Kira and Dax laughed, but Bashir stayed silent. 

“What, is wanting to relax when you’re off-duty such a crime?” O’Brien asked. “Why would any non-Cardassian want to argue about books on their off-time?” 

Bashir swallowed hard. “...I know I’ve told you before, that I enjoy literary debate because—”

“The Chief is right!” Kira exclaimed. “For Cardassians, being able to argue with someone without the argument ending with one of them dead is the height of romance. But we’re different. We know the joy tenderness can bring.”

“Joy indeed.” Dax waggled her eyebrows. She held up her glass, toasting to the thought. “To tenderness!” 

“I’d drink to that any day!” O’Brien said.

Bashir left his glass on the counter. Dax looked down at him. “Why aren’t you joining in, Julian? You’re a would-be romantic at heart!”

“It’s just… isn’t there something to be said for being comfortable enough to argue?” he asked. “I mean, we all disagree—openly, and constantly—and we’re friends. It shows how nothing can break us apart! Doesn’t it?” He mentally kicked himself for adding that last bit. Why did he have to phrase it as a question?

“We’re toasting to romantic tenderness,” Kira said. 

“Yeah, when Keiko and I argue it’s not enjoyable,” O’Brien said. 

“That’s not the type of arguing I meant,” Bashir muttered. He continued, “Isn’t it the same either way? Whether it’s friendly or romantic, I mean. It shows how intimately you’re acquainted.”

“Oh, _intimately_ , you say?” Dax’s smile widened.  
  
“Jadzia!” Kira clenched her hands into fists. “Don’t say that!”  
  
Bashir stood up and strode toward his friends, leaving his drink behind. “And why not say that, Major?” he asked, keeping his voice level once again. 

O’Brien took another swig of his drink and made a sound of disgust. “Trying to look and sound all stony like that—you’re acting just like him, too. Have been for a while, actually. I can’t stand it.”

Bashir spun away from Kira and fixed O’Brien with his cold stare. “And what, exactly, is that supposed to mean, Miles?” 

O’Brien sputtered for a moment, as if suddenly disgusted by the taste of what he had been drinking. “Y-You know!” He gesticulated wildly with his free hand. “For as long as you’ve known the man, you’ve been… changing.”

“How?”

O’Brien had that guilty and bitter look about him, the kind he took on whenever he accidentally let one of Keiko’s plants die. “You’ve been zoning out when we’ve played darts, and when we’re drinking, don’t think I haven’t seen you scrolling through those Cardie books on your PADD. I told you about that stone-faced expression—you get this intimidating air about you sometimes. Even the words you use are different. And when you’re not zoned out or being scary, you go too far the other way! You’ve stopped chasing after the ladies and have started flirting with the guys, and your body language gets all… showy, and—”

“That’s enough, Chief.” Dax nudged him. “Let’s not go down this road.”

“I disagree,” Bashir put his fist under his chin in a thinker pose. Was this what Miles meant by “showy?” “I think we should go down that road! Miles, what you described—that’s me. I’ve always been a fervent disciple of the literary arts, and everything else can be chalked up to my increased confidence. I’m sure being with—being friends with Garak has helped with that. I can really be myself around him, since he likes everything about me you’ve brought up! If I seem different, it’s only because I’d been holding back with you!”

O’Brien sighed. “The old Julian would’ve never said anything like ‘fervent disciple of the literary arts.’” 

“No kidding. Garak really did do something to you,” Kira said, sarcastically. 

“He did something to me? He did something to me?!” Bashir took another heavy step forward. His eyes had adjusted to the low light, and in the dimness of the red glow from the bar at his back, Bashir felt he could see these people more clearly than ever before. “Every step of the way, for years now, I’ve intermittently tried telling you three about how we’ve been growing closer. But in the early days of our friendship, you’d cut me off and say, ‘You’re not really friends, Julian—’ and yes, Jadzia, I’m looking at you. And then, I suppose once you couldn’t keep denying that the bond existed, you started tuning me out whenever I so much as said his name.” His arms fell to his sides, limp, as the tide of anger subsided. His blush returned. “All Garak did to me… was listen.”

Dax leaned into his personal space. “Julian, this really isn’t like you. You should scan yourself for the fungal infection.” She examined his eyes—as if that would reveal anything!

Bashir relented and put his medical tricorder to use. “I’m perfectly healthy.” He held up the whirring device to the three of them for a moment, then shut it off and pocketed it again. He took a deep breath, and consciously mimicked Dax’s pose by putting his arms behind his back. “Listen, why don’t you three tell me what it is that you actually think is so objectionable? Somehow, I doubt it’s the fact that being friends with Garak has made me comfortable with being a little more eloquent or flamboyant.”

The three of them, in a line, stared at the dark floor, like naughty schoolchildren in one of Keiko’s classes. Bashir waited for someone to crack. Finally, Kira’s head snapped up. “Julian, I know what the Cardassians are like, and I know that if you keep strutting around and puffing yourself up and standing close to him and-and having the gall to argue about literature—in public, no less—Garak’s going to think you’re into him, too! Why, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were, and have been for a long time!”

Bashir stood still and said nothing. 

“Well? Don’t you have anything to say?” Kira asked. “He probably gets off, knowing that by Cardassian standards, you’re an old married couple.”

“I suppose I’m realizing I should have asked you a second question—not just what do you find objectionable, but also… why?” Bashir asked.

O’Brien spoke up, “What do you mean, ‘why?’ The situation speaks for itself, doesn’t it? This is Garak we’re talking about. Untrustworthy, dangerous? You said it yourself, nobody ever leaves the Obsidian Order!”

“I see you actually were listening to me when I was telling you about him. What a surprise.” Bashir rolled his eyes. 

Dax circled back to the bar, finished her drink, then went up behind Bashir. He was surrounded, now. “Being curt isn’t helping, Julian,” she said. 

Bashir looked her in the eye—in the low light, her blue eyes were a cloudy grey, and her science blue uniform a dull purple. He could smell the sour scent of alcohol on her breath. “Jadzia, why aren’t you backing me up here?” he asked. After she did nothing but offer him a bittersweet smile, he raised his voice. “I hoped that since you went to me for advice when you wanted to break the reassociation taboo, you’d understand, but I must have been naive. Considering that when Garak was dying, all you did was look me in the eye and claim we weren’t friends, I don’t know why I ever expected anything else.” 

Kira yanked Bashir away from Dax. “That’s enough!” Kira snapped. “The problem is that Garak can’t be trusted. It’s nothing like what Jadzia went through.”

Bashir noticed that O’Brien was looking between the three of them suspiciously, having lost the thread of the argument. Bashir ignored him and kept speaking to Kira. “Kira, if Garak hadn’t told me what had happened that time you were captured, you wouldn’t be here today. How can your opinion of him still be this low?”

Kira shook her head. “It’s not that I hate Garak. Sure, I don’t trust him, but I can tolerate him well enough. The thing is, love is about honesty. You can’t be in a relationship with someone who refuses to be straight with you.”

“And, well, you’re a greenhorn, Julian,” Dax added. “You’re thirty, not three-hundred. You have a lot of life ahead of you, and, let’s be frank, not a lot of experience. You can’t blame us for worrying about you.” 

Bashir knew he could not keep ignoring the sharp look O’Brien was giving him forever, but still he tried focusing on Kira. “I’m… I’m sure Odo’s told you about his talks with Garak. He used to work for the Cardassian government and longs for home himself! They understand each other. And if Odo can appreciate Garak, doesn’t that count for something in your mind, Kira? And I saved Odo’s life when the station was under siege, earning his respect! He knows I can handle myself under pressure, and he always levels with you. Talk to him, I bet he’d take my side!”

Kira looked askance, her earrings fluttering and catching the light. But before she could respond, O’Brien piped up. “When Garak does a good deed, it’s ‘cause he wants something. It’s not like he’s willing to work with us and play nice because he wants to be part of some big, happy family.”

Bashir scoffed. “Ah, yes, when Garak was such a bleeding heart over that Cardassian boy, he definitely wanted something.” He pointed to O’Brien. “And before you say anything, Garak didn’t know there was a political conspiracy going on behind the scenes, and Sisko certainly didn’t give him a medal for his efforts! Garak saw a child who might have been abused, and stepped in. And didn’t you come to care about Rugal, too? You wouldn’t be this hard on him!”  
  
“Garak’s not a sad little boy!” O’Brien said. “Even if Garak had more on his mind than politics, we all know he tried to pick you up when you two first met. Don’t you think maybe he was pretending to be kind to get into your pants?”

“Trying to pick somebody up isn’t a crime, Miles! Odo can vouch for that, too!” 

“But what about when he creeps on you, Julian?” O’Brien asked. “What will you do then? The longer this goes on, the likelier it is that he’ll make a serious move, and you’ll have to deal with the fallout!” 

“When he creeps—what?!” Bashir put his foot down, literally. He stomped up to O’Brien and yelled down at him. “Garak will never force me into anything—he respects me, unlike the three of you!” He stared O’Brien, Dax, and Kira down. “Whatever happens between us will be completely _consensual_.” With that, Bashir spun on his heel and stormed into the darkness, away from the bar and the Promenade looming above. He heard O’Brien yelling “What?!” and Dax calling out “Julian!” after him, then finally Kira telling them to let him go. Once the sound of their voices were drowned out by the noise of the rest of the thin crowd, Bashir let out a shaky breath.

* * *

Secret Agent Julian Bashir, for the fifth day in a row, shunned all company—real or otherwise—and retreated to his one-bedroom London flat. Bashir had even reprogrammed the scenario to remove his faithful valet, and every other character for that matter, leaving him sitting alone. He let himself sink into his club chair, tired of standing out on the balcony and letting holographic rain fall on his tuxedo as he looked out at the period streetlamps’ glow. Bashir heard the doorknob turning. 

The door swung open, revealing Garak. He looked every which way as he came in, as if he was either gazing in wonder at the high walls and decor or checking for deathtraps. “Ah, Doctor,” he said, sauntering closer. “How very kind of you to disappear and give me a mystery to solve. Based on your… less than pleased expression and the way in which you’re hanging your head, I can only conclude that the villain of this program has poisoned you, and I must hunt down this culprit. Were you inspired by last week’s issues with the toxic spores?” Garak’s tense, tight smile gave away the anger caused by Bashir’s vanishing act. 

Bashir looked up. 

Garak’s eyes widened at the sight of his face. “Oh. I see that poison isn’t to blame.” He moved to an adjacent leather couch and sat down expectantly. 

“I can’t believe my friends failed the test,” Bashir muttered. 

“My dear doctor, I promise you, if I’ve failed any test of yours, I’ll be sure to study and retake it at the earliest opportunity.”

“You didn’t fail anything, Garak. It was Miles, Jadzia, and Major Kira I was testing.” Bashir put his head back, just barely able to see the glass doors and the night sky through them. “Last time I ran away from my problems by throwing myself into my spy fantasies, you were the only one who bothered to come check on me.”

“And you were hoping for a better showing from your other friends this time around?”  
  
Bashir nodded. 

Garak leaned against the arm of the couch facing Bashir. “And what, pray tell, inspired such a test of character?”

The raindrops clinging to the glass caught the glow of the streetlamps, resulting in blurry circles of color. They drifted with every slight movement of Bashir’s head. “After the fungal infections were under control, I went out drinking with the three of them to unwind—and they… ganged up on me, I suppose. I gave each of them a chance to stick up for me, and none of them bothered,” he said. “Tell me, Garak, do you remember what I said I experienced in my mindscape after I fell victim to the Lethean’s psychic attack?”

“Perfectly, Doctor, down to the rainbow balloon display. How could I ever forget?” 

“Right… you never would forget about potential material for blackmail, would you.” Bashir tilted his head back up just to glower. “Then you remember how, in my mind, they were all bickering amongst themselves and insulting me at every opportunity. At the time, I said I knew something was off because they were acting out-of-character. I figured it was because they weren’t really anything like themselves because they only represented parts of my own consciousness. But now, I’m starting to wonder… what if they weren’t behaving as uncharacteristically as I thought? What if it wasn’t that they embodied my own emotions… but that it wasn’t actually that far off from how they treat me in reality?” 

Garak nodded. “That would be a sound interpretation. Go on.” 

Bashir's words ran like the rainwater on the streets outside. “Why don't they respect me, Garak? Everything that ever bothered them, I've already fixed! Before, they used to call me awkward—now I'm confident, but they say I'm getting ahead of myself. They told me my interests were immature—but they don't want me discussing literature, either. I was putting off all the women on the station by chasing them—but now that I'm tastefully appreciating men, it's still somehow putting them off. They always said I talk too much, and in response I learned to shut up—but they hardly listen to a word I say no matter how rarely I open my mouth.” Bashir paused. “I'm sorry, I guess I haven't learned how to shut up after all.”

Garak rose and carefully approached. Bashir did not look up to meet his gaze—he could not bear to see pity in those blue eyes. Not from Garak. “Doctor,” Garak said, “why do you put so much effort into changing yourself for people who don’t respect you?”

Bashir crossed his legs, feeling the urge for his body to take up less space in the already mostly-empty room. “Those were all real flaws, Garak. I had to correct them. But now? Now, I have no idea what to correct,” he murmured. 

Garak wandered away from him, passing by the balcony doors. He paced around the room, peering into every corner, inspecting the furnishings. Finally, he whirled back around to face Bashir. “I know what it is you must correct!” Garak exclaimed. “I thought the decor in your Hong Kong suite was gaudy, but this is simply offensive!” He gestured to a few framed photographs sitting on the floor in the corner. “Unhung artwork sitting out, in plain view of any visitors? An insult, if ever I’ve seen one.” 

“W-What?!” Bashir sputtered. He pushed himself up. “Garak, how dare you! I know you’re surely disappointed in the lateness of my realization, but I let you in, and…” he trailed off. 

“Look at this sad, thin little lamp standing guard by the couch, while the other side of the room goes unlit, utterly bereft of fixtures. The fireplace is clearly non-functional.” Garak shook his head slowly. “I almost regret ever searching for you, if this is where you’ve chosen to sequester yourself.” 

Some of the tension left Bashir’s shoulders. “You’re flirting with me, aren’t you?” 

Garak turned to face him, looking put out. “Always, Doctor. But what I was getting at is that you ought to release your anger!”

“What anger?” Bashir asked. 

Garak gave him a look. 

“Listen, Garak, I understand that you’re only trying to help, but I’m not in the mood to do our little dance right now.” Bashir sighed and looked outside. The drizzle was as pathetic as ever, because of course it was. The weather in this scenario had not been scripted to change as time passed. 

“‘Do our little dance?’ I am appalled to hear you have such a low opinion of our discussions!” In the glass, Bashir could see Garak’s reflection making a veritable show of righteous anger. Even in his listless state, Bashir had to admit to himself that Garak, all ablaze with faux-emotion, cut an especially striking figure in that tux. 

“What, exactly, do you want me to do?” Bashir asked, in a clipped tone. “Flip over a table?” 

Garak started. His eyes slowly widened. 

Bashir inwardly cursed. He spun away from the doors. “Garak, I’m sorry. That was insensitive of me—” 

“Oh, make no apologies.” Garak seemed transfixed by what lay before him—if it was the weather or Bashir that had captured his attention was unclear. Bashir assumed it was both. “My dear doctor, you are familiar with the intimacy of anger, yes?” Garak asked. 

“Obviously I am. The basic principle underlying Cardassian courtship—being comfortable enough to disagree… that was one of the things I tried to explain to my friends that they didn’t grasp, or didn’t want to grasp, I guess,” Bashir said. 

“Yes, yes, but it is about more than mere disagreement!” Garak ambled into Bashir’s personal bubble and reached out, touching Bashir’s side and urging him toward the heart of the room. Once the two of them stood chest-to-chest, he continued, “It also involves trusting one another enough to explode with rage in moments of closeness, without causing each other harm.” 

“If you are begging me to shoot you again, I’m afraid I can’t oblige.” 

“As lovely as I’m sure that would be, Doctor, I’m afraid I was referring to something else.” Garak pulled away from Bashir, who mourned the loss of his touch. “Something like—” Garak seized the lamp and threw it to the floor. The shade fell against one of the unhung pictures and the lightbulb, still lit, shattered. Shards of glass and sparks skittered across the floorboards like beads of mercury. For once, the Holosuite’s safeties functioned properly, preventing any fires from starting and any bits of glass getting lodged into flesh or between scales. “Disgusting thing, you deserved no better!” Garak snapped. 

Bashir grinned. “You expect me to wreak havoc? To wantonly destroy like some mindless monster?”  
  
“Yes, of course!” Garak kicked in the glass of the picture’s frame for good measure. 

“You are ridiculous.” Bashir made his way past the couch and useless fireplace, toward the door. 

“Stop right there!” Garak yelled. “You-You are incorrigible!”

Bashir shrugged and kept walking. He heard Garak run up to him, and as soon as he felt Garak’s arm shoot out and touch him on the shoulder, Bashir turned around, and pushed past him. Bashir shot forward, back to the couch, and reached down, putting his hands below the tabletop of the coffee table before shoving it with all his genetically augmented strength. The table flipped over and slammed into the floor with a sound like thunder.

Bashir smiled sheepishly at Garak’s dumbstruck expression. “What can I say? It wasn’t the nicest looking coffee table out there,” Bashir said. 

The two of them were like a hurricane, destroying everything in sight. Every pane of glass of the balcony doors and picture frames was smashed. Every bit of leather on the furniture was scratched. The coffee table and lamp were not left to lie on the floor—instead, Bashir and Garak flung open the balcony doors, safeties preventing any cuts from the broken glass—and threw them over the ornate rail and into the streets. One knocked over a lamp post on the way down, and the two partners in crime found the _crash_ immensely satisfying. 

Eventually, Bashir and Garak ended up side-by-side, on the center of the couch—they had had enough foresight to leave the cushions where they were—surveying the wreckage. With every light smashed, the only illumination was seeping in from the balcony, leaving the damaged walls on the room a soft purple. Other than the toneless noise of the night rain, the only sound was their heavy breathing. 

Bashir looked over at Garak. His mouth was slightly open, and his hair unkempt. The pale blue of his eyes were dancing with the faint light from outside, making the most inviting tiny beacons. Bashir felt warm all over, from more than the physical exertion. He exhaled and let himself fall against Garak’s shoulder. Bashir's eyes fluttered closed, and he felt Garak tense, then relax, though not completely. Taking this as an invitation, Bashir shifted his position slightly and nuzzled closer to Garak's neck. Garak’s pulse was racing, and he was shivering adorably. Bashir smiled against his ridged shoulder blade. “Did you never consider where all this flirtation would lead the two of us? What’s all this shyness, my dear Mister Garak?”

“Your head is on my shoulder!” Garak said, with a veneer of exasperation. 

“Surely you’ve imagined my head on your shoulder.” Bashir could not resist opening his eyes and lifting his chin up slightly, so he could see Garak’s face up close—whenever Bashir was with Garak, he felt like a taut bowstring. 

Garak’s eyes darted back and forth, before he squeezed them shut. “…Yes, and more than that, besides,” he murmured. 

“Oh? What else?” 

“You are smart enough to know, Doctor.” 

“Am I? What if I’m not?” 

Garak bravely turned to meet Bashir’s amused gaze, bringing them nose-to-nose. “Then I will wait many more years. I’m a patient man.”

“I’m not quite convinced.” Bashir had been smiling so widely, for so long, his face was beginning to get sore. 

Garak rolled his eyes theatrically. “My dear doctor, we have been in this sort of… position, many times, and every—” Whatever words were to have come next went unspoken, for Bashir all but dove at Garak, pinning him to the cushions. 

First their bodies, and then their palms were pressed flushed together as they rushed to hold each other's hands. As they rubbed their smooth palms together and stroked the backs of their hands with their fingers, they pressed their lips together. Their kiss was soft and tender, yet completely without hesitation, and their gazes remained as locked and heated as ever. Bashir knew that both he and Garak wanted to drink in the sight of each other's face in this intimate moment, recording it in their memories to return to at any time. Another part of Bashir was vaguely aware that the Holosuite was a rather silly setting for this to happen at long last, but at the forefront of his mind was the memory of how their relationship had become truly solidified in this very program. 

Slowly, Bashir pulled back, just far enough that he could gaze down at Garak’s beautiful face framed on each side by their joined hands. Bashir edged his knee closer, letting it rest between Garak’s parted legs. Wordlessly, Garak and Bashir mutually agreed to let one hand each go free from each other’s delicate holds, bidding them explore. Garak quickly ran his hand up his own shirt and undid one of the buttons on his collar, revealing his tender grey neck.

“How forward of you,” said Bashir, revelling in the view. 

“I have no idea what it is you mean,” Garak said with a smile. “These collars are not made for broad, Cardassian necks, after all.”

Bashir gave Garak’s cheek a playful poke before he undid the next button down on Garak’s collar. Tenderly, Bashir brushed his thick, dark hair—still glossy, even in such little light—aside, and then slipped into Garak’s undershirt. Bashir slid his fingers over the ridges on Garak’s neck, earning a sweet gasp. Garak, looking for a similarly sweet spot, pushed inside Bashir’s tuxedo jacket, caressing his chest and then sides through his shirt. Bashir felt Garak run his skilled fingers over his scapula, pulling each finger across them as if beckoning for hidden wings to come bursting forth from Bashir’s back. Meanwhile, the spoon-shaped depression on Garak’s forehead darkened, becoming tinged with indigo. 

_Illustration by[carrot-tin](carrot-tin.tumblr.com) and the author_

The sensation did not tickle, but Bashir snorted. The snorts became peals of giggles. 

Garak’s half-lidded eyes became fully open. “My dear Julian, what is so amusing?”

“It’s—your—” Bashir struggled to speak through his laughter. “—it’s tinted blue!” Soon after, tears swelled in his eyes, and his laughter metamorphosed into sobs. 

“I understand that ‘blue’ and ‘sorrow’ are occasionally conflated in human cultures, but I hardly believe that is the explanation for these tears,” Garak said. His hand stilled against Bashir’s back, but stayed put. He spread his fingers, pressing against Bashir in a more supportive than lurid gesture.

Bashir groaned. “Uh, maybe it was too much catharsis. Oops.” Suddenly, he was very aware of where his leg was pressing into Garak’s groin. Oh well, at least no more crying was happening, he thought. 

Garak smiled up at him, pleasantly and quizzically. 

Bashir wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his suit jacket, then leaned in again, this time pressing their foreheads together. “I’ll more than make up for the interruption, my dear Elim,” he whispered into Garak’s mouth. 

A sound like stage lights going out resonated throughout the room, and the couch they had been lying on vanished. They fell to the cold floor with a thud and Bashir rolled away from Garak. Bashir looked up—there were the gridded walls on the Holosuite, nothing but the skeleton of the geometry remaining. He and Garak had gone overtime, and no doubt Quark was going to expect a generous tip after this. 

Garak groaned. He looked to be in no hurry to get up. “Let’s agree that cheering you up should not come at the cost of my back next time.”

* * *

For their next lunch date, they mutually decided to eat at their favorite table on the Promenade as opposed to at the Replimat. It felt right to be high above the crowds, the two of them in full view of everyone and everyone in full view of them. Of course, none of the passerby were aware of how they were nudging each other’s feet under the table, even cheekily hooking the bottoms of each other’s pants—Bashir and Garak stopped anytime someone went by—but the action of flaunting this secret openly and lording it above everyone else, even without their knowledge, made Bashir feel all warm inside. 

As he waited for Garak to finish his food, he smiled down at Quark’s—to think, nobody knew the origin of the wistfulness in his smile! Wait, he thought, there in the throng—was that the Major? There she was, leaning against the bar, showing an uncharacteristic lack of anger at whatever Quark was telling her. She glanced up, right at Bashir. 

Bashir hastily turned back to Garak and leaned in conspiratorially. He brushed his foot one more time for good measure. “You know what she’s going to do, don’t you, Garak?” 

Bashir assumed, correctly, that Garak had already noticed her. “Concerned about the possibility that she’ll underperform on another test, Doctor?” Garak asked. 

“No, I think it’s more like she’s trying to make up for wrong answers to earn back some lost credit.” He leaned in even more, narrowly avoiding Garak’s plate. “Listen closely, Garak, I want your help in making sure it’s not too easy…” Bashir detailed the plan. 

Garak grinned. Bashir always loved seeing those cute teeth of his. The two of them stood up and walked a little ways from their table, ensuring Major Kira could see them depart. Garak surveyed the crowd, and brushed his arm against Bashir as they walked side-by-side, signalling that she had reached the stairs and was now ascending. When she reached the top step, Bashir and Garak stopped walking to face each other instead. 

“Thank you again for the wonderful lunch, Doctor!” Garak said, rather loudly.  
  
Bashir nodded and offered his hand, which Garak shook—they intertwined their fingers just a little, but did not press their hands together so much that anyone familiar with Cardassian culture would start to talk. 

As expected, as soon as Garak began walking away from Bashir, Major Kira moved in. She strode toward him like she was going into battle, which would have been concerning from anybody else. “Well.” She cleared her throat. “Glad to see you enjoyed your lunch, Julian.”

Bashir nodded. 

“You know, I—”

“I’m afraid I have a lot to do today, Major,” said Bashir. “If you have something to say, why don’t you walk with me for a while?” Without waiting for a response, he began making his way toward the nearest arched hallway. 

Major Kira kept up with him, but Bashir refused to look at her face. “You have no idea how much it hurts to admit this, but you’re right to be short with me now,” Kira said. “I did it. I talked to Odo. He wouldn’t fill me in on everything Garak had been through, but he definitely took your side like you thought he would—you’d be happy to know he thinks what you have is good for you both. And if Odo’s willing to keep something in confidence for your and Garak’s sake and still wants to support you two, that tells me all I need to know.”

“I see. That was very kind of him.” Bashir did not slow down as he left the rows of tables behind.

“But even you wouldn’t believe what Quark said! He’s under the impression that you and Garak are like a pair of innocent little schoolboys and that you’re actually playing nice, by human and Cardassian standards!” She snorted. “You can’t blame me if my experience with the Cardassians didn’t let me in on the secret that literary lunch debates are like passing love letters on the schoolyard—actually, maybe you can blame me, that’s up to you.” 

“And you used to say that _I_ talk too much!” Bashir said.

Major Kira let out a curt sigh, but did not argue. “Then Quark started to tell me about what some Cardassian woman named Natima used to do with her teeth, and I tuned everything out.”

Bashir smiled, but ran on ahead so Kira would not see it. There, lingering in the entrance to the dimly-lit hall, was Garak. He stepped into the light to greet them. “Doctor, Major.” He gave a shallow bow. “Doctor—oh, I certainly hope I’m not interrupting anything! I’m afraid I forgot to give you something during our lunch—this will only take a moment, I assure you.” 

Bashir grinned, looking Garak in his sparkling blue eyes. Who knew if Kira could see their expressions? What did it really matter? “Is that so, my dear Mister Garak?” asked Bashir. “As it happens, I forgot to give you a little something, too! It all works out. If you don’t mind, Major?” He made a show of glancing back at her.

Kira stopped short and looked between them both. “...No, go ahead.”

Garak held out a closed hand to Bashir, as if he had a tiny gift hiding in his fist. Bashir reached out and teased Garak’s closed hand open, revealing the empty space they knew would be there. Fast as lightning, they pressed their palms together and leaned in for a quick kiss on the lips. 

They kept holding hands as Bashir sent a radiant smile Kira’s way. “There we go! Go ahead, Major, say what you wanted to say.”

Kira’s face was so tense, the bridge of her nose looked like it had twice as many ridges. She swallowed whatever noise she was about to make before speaking. “I’m sorry, Julian!” she snapped. “And I’ll try to get Jadzia on your side, but no promises.” She pushed past them and ran down the hall.

“Was this acceptable?” Garak asked Bashir.

“My dear Elim,” Bashir whispered. He took Garak’s other hand. “Far more than that!”


End file.
